you're crashing (but you're no wave)
by HopefulVoice
Summary: They watch each other across the table. He wonders how much more than her hair and her look has changed in three years. She thinks that he hasn't changed at all, except now the wounds that were always simmering beneath the surface are raw. Modern AU.


**A/N:** Modern AU because why the hell not. Contains past Tyrion/Tysha and hints towards Margaery/Sansa. This fic is less heavy on the details of their modern life and more on the ~emotions.

* * *

The woman he is looking for is in the centre of the room being talked at by a man he doesn't recognize. Her hand rests on her hip, well-defined in a figure-hugging dress, while the other crosses her chest and holds a champagne flute. He can see the effects of the latter in her eyes, or perhaps it's just the gentleman's conversation.

The man says something and there is a second's pause before she realizes it is a joke, then he hears her laugh for the first time in forever. Tyrion wonders how she makes it so warm even when she is faking. Her companion is certainly fooled.

A middle-aged couple waves from across the room. She brushes the joker off with some flattery and crosses the floor, kissing the woman on the cheek and shaking the husband's hand.

He signals a passing waiter and asks him to tell the lady in red that her hair is beautiful tonight. The waiter politely suggests he's had enough to drink and that the lady's otherwise occupied.

She is spinning out an amusing story for the benefit of the couple. A few others have stopped talking in order to listen in. They are clearly enjoying her attention. He is unsurprised.

Another man transpires behind her, trying to attract her attention. He is rather attractive, physically at least. Tyrion dislikes him on sight.

She bestows a smile upon the good-looking man but continues to converse with the mature couple. He beams back, seemingly unaware that he has been dismissed.

She's good at this, Tyrion realizes. He recognizes none of these people and certainly they are not aware of him, but he could hardly point at one who doesn't admire her. It will never occur to him that he is jealous.

He begins walking, because he knows he shouldn't, and it wouldn't take much to get back in the car that he brought because he didn't guess how much he would want to drink before he did this. Accident, arrest or both would be a fitting end to a perfect year.

There is still some distance between them, too much perhaps, when he says, "Sansa."

It is curious that she hears him from such a distance when he speaks in such a hushed tone.

Her head turns at once. She clears her throat.

He stays where he is, shifting his weight and looking charmingly awkward.

She turns back to her audience and for a moment he believes that it's over, that he has been rejected more easily than even the handsome man he doesn't recognize.

The whiskey slows his reactions and before he has worked out what that means for his self-esteem, she is excusing herself from the husband and wife and within moments is grabbing onto his arm, leading him somewhere quieter.

"So," she says lightly, pulling up an extra chair to the table-for-one they have commandeered, "What brings you here?"

"Did you get my message?" he asks, knowing she didn't. "About your hair?"

"My hair?" she frowns and raises her hand to it. She brushes it off her shoulder.

"It's beautiful."

She pulls back and away from him. "You're only saying that because I got mad at you for not noticing last time."

"Sure I am. Doesn't make it not true."

"What about the rest of me?" She waves a hand up and down her body. His eyes follow at a more leisurely pace.

"The rest of you's not deteriorating too badly," he admits grudgingly.

She rolls her eyes. "Can't believe I've lasted three years without your company, Tyrion."

"Two compliments and still she isn't satisfied." He throws his hands up in mock despair.

"You have to compliment all the essential features. It's one of the rules."

"I've covered the hair and I've covered the rest of you. I'd say I'm good on all bases."

She shakes her head. "You forgot the biggest one of all."

"What, your ass?"

She reaches across the table and smacks his hand.

"Idiot! The dress! You're supposed to say something nice about the dress! Jeez, how did you ever talk someone into marrying you?"

He can see her mentally kick herself when she realizes her faux pas. She hides her face in her hands.

"I'm the idiot. Mea culpa."

He brushes it off, because that's the best thing to do with marriages that ended long before the signing of the papers: "It's fine."

"I'm sorry about you and Tysha."

"Sansa, you didn't do anything you need to be sorry for. It wasn't your fault."

She looks at him oddly; he wonders what he said wrong.

"I meant I was sorry to hear."

He blushes a little under the beard and fumbles with a napkin. She twirls the empty champagne flute around between her hands.

"What did you think I meant?"

"I just - I don't know. I'm drunk and confused."

She snorts. "You're not drunk. I've seen you drunk."

"I'm an amorous drunk," he hints, brushing his hand over hers.

"You're a stinking drunk," she informs him. He cannot help feeling deflated, even though that's not what he came here for.

"I probably shouldn't say this," she says, avoiding his eyes, "But I was amazed it dragged on so long."

"It didn't drag on," he snaps, the alcohol adding a growl to his voice. He has to deny it vehemently because she's spot-on. It makes a mockery of his marriage for her to know it.

"Okay. It's just that the last time I saw you - it seemed like you were-" She planned to say that they were close to the end but amends it to, "-not getting on too spectacularly."

"We all go through rough patches." He's appropriately rough about it.

"Anyway." She's examining her nail polish. "I was very sorry to hear."

He should have known better than to expect her to be sorry about anything else. He meant it when he told her she didn't have to be.

"By the way," he moves on, "The dress. It's not unpleasing to the eye. Not on you."

She smiles, gratified, though she wouldn't want anyone to think glittering clothes and flattering words are what's important to her.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he offers, aware that it makes him sound like a sodden old man and uncaring.

She nods, not looking at him, auburn hair falling into her face. She looks for something to play with and finds his hand, sliding her fingers between his and toying with the wedding band.

"Same again?"

She shakes her head; the hair bounces.

"Something pretty."

His probing gaze coaxes her to look up and grin at him. Dean Martin croons a romantic song in the background.

"Anything garish, then?"

"You know me too well," she says sarcastically, hoping he doesn't and knowing he does.

At the bar, where the music is louder, one of the cocktail waiters is mixing something bright, to which he adds a toothpick umbrella with a cherry skewered through it. As he can never remember the names of such things, Tyrion gestures that he'd like one of the same.

He elects to sit this one out himself, feeling it is prudent to keep a few wits about him. It would be unfortunate if he had to wait for another three years to pass before their next meeting.

Experimentally he samples the concoction as he turns to head back to their table. He blanches, ever incapable of understanding Sansa can prefer this sort of mixture to a proper drink. However, since it is her and it's been three years he can afford to be indulgent. For five minutes, perhaps.

He blanches again a moment later when he sees a woman standing behind Sansa's chair with one hand on her arm, head dropping to plant a kiss on the opposite shoulder.

They speak with animation. It does not take much to see that the women are fond of each other.

It is troublesome to realize that he is bothered by this. He has no right to be.

He grits his teeth, which for him equates to a smile, and threads through the throngs of people.

As he approaches, Sansa's upper body is twisted gracefully around in her seat to face the other woman. Their fingertips bat each other's hair; the woman winds a lock of Sansa's around her finger.

As he recalls it, his wife and niece were always content to express their appreciation of each other's hairstyles with high-pitched squeals.

Neither woman pays any attention when he deposits the glass on the table.

"Ahem."

She notices and lifts the glass.

"Oh. Tyrion. Thanks."

Ignoring him, her friend laughs at the pink confection.

"How can you drink that teen-girl shit?"

She pretends to be offended, then looks closer and pays Tyrion the kind of attention he could live without.

She lifts her glare and lowers her glass, and turns back to the third party. He feels he will hear more about this later.

"Margaery, this is Tyrion Lannister. Our families know each other."

Is that how the relationship can be summed up? Is it possible that something can be so uncomplicated?

The woman finally deigns to look upon him, extending a hand. He critically assesses her in a glance. He judges her smile too smug, her manner over-confident and her dress too insubstantial.

"Margaery Tyrell."

He smiles faintly, all he can manage.

"So what brings you here tonight, Tyrone?"

He doesn't correct her because he knows she knows what his name is and what's more he's sure Sansa knows she knows what his name is and he's never been one to pass on an opportunity to make an opponent look bad.

He glances at Sansa, who rolls her eyes a fraction as if to say, _I know what you're doing, you know_.

Looking back at Margaery, he covers Sansa's hand with his own and plays his cards.

"She does."

Margaery inclines her head and kneads Sansa's shoulder before stepping back and bowing out.

"You'll be in touch, yeah?"

"Bet on it."

They both watch Margaery disappear across the room, hips a-sway in time to the strains of Sinatra, before turning their attention back to each other.

"What was that all about?" she asks disingenuously.

"All what?" He doesn't believe in making things easy for people.

"You weren't very friendly."

"Sansa, I know it's been a while, but you do remember who you're talking to, right?"

"No one's expecting you to act like a purple dinosaur but you could-"

"I'm sorry?"

"That's a good answer."

"No, I mean, a purple dinosaur?"

"I was thinking, Barney, it's cuddly and-"

"Barney is what springs to mind when my name comes up?"

"Your name hasn't come up in a while."

Although it's true and it's sad, he laughs at her because it's good to see her and she laughs at herself because it's good to see him - and though he's often been called a dinosaur by his niece and nephew, purple really isn't his color.

"Can I play with your hair?" he asks.

"What?"

"You let her play with your hair. And I noticed you'd changed it and everything. I deserve some credit for that."

"If I gave you what you deserve you'd be going home with Jimmy Choo up somewhere unpleasant."

She flexes her calf and he wonders when she started wearing shoes with bows on the straps.

"But I'd have a smile on my face, right?"

She declines to comment, instead countering, "Can I play with your beard?"

"What?!"

"That's a change too. You didn't use to have a beard. I want to play with it."

"No."

He clamps a hand protectively to his chin.

"You can play with my hair if I can play with your beard."

He barely has to hesitate: "No."

They watch each other across the table. He wonders how much more than her hair and her look has changed in three years. She thinks that he hasn't changed at all, except now the wounds that were always simmering beneath the surface are raw.

"You haven't touched your drink," he says softly.

She narrows her eyes.

"I've seen Tysha drink these."

Ah. He marvels at her capacity to perceive a misdemeanor in the smallest of actions.

"Your point being?"

"My point being that you want me to be like your wife."

He rubs his eyes, realizing for the first time that he is weary.

"Two things. Firstly, the last thing in the world I want you to be is another Tysha. Secondly, I don't have a wife any more, Sansa."

There is an unmistakable emphasis on the latter.

He stares at his hands, which he is rather surprised to see have shredded the paper napkin into hundreds of tiny pieces.

"There is a third thing," he mutters almost inaudibly. She doesn't bother making him repeat it.

"Yeah? You planning on telling me what it is?"

He can't find anything else to fidget with so he begins balling up the fragments of napkin and making a pattern on the tablecloth.

"You're fine."

"I'm what?"

"The way you are."

"Tyrion?"

He steals a napkin from the next table rather than lean across to borrow hers, in the hope that she will not push for an elaboration she will not receive, and begins its systematic demolition.

She can't understand why she feels warmer with this man, who won't pay compliments on anything more personal than hair, than she does making small talk with the roomful of people who treat her like a starlet and aren't afraid to say so.

"Who was that person?" he asks abruptly, both to rescue himself and because he wants to know.

"If you mean Margaery, you could use her name."

"She couldn't use mine."

"You're a lot alike." It's the first time she's thought of it but it's accurate. "Margaery's you with nice round breasts."

He looks down at himself and blinks the thought away.

"She's rude."

"That's my point."

He begins working on a new construction with the tiny paper balls. She keeps talking because she really is irritated that he thinks he's allowed to be offended by this.

"You'd like her, if you weren't so like her."

"You didn't tell me who she is."

"She's a contact, someone I have dealings with. Same as everyone else here."

Yes, he does know he's the odd one out. He already admitted why he'd come, he has no intention of repeating the sentiment.

"She knows a lot of interesting people."

"How well does she know them?"

He isn't ashamed when he realizes he said it aloud. She knows better than to expect an apology.

"It's just that it's been a long time. It'd be nice if we could talk without interruptions for a while."

"You shouldn't have crashed a work occasion then."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

She looks across the room and affects not to care about the implication.

He is still fiddling with the remains of the napkins when she swings her head round, focusing the bitterness.

"You really don't like to share, do you?"

His eyes dart upwards and down again. He sways a little in his seat.

"It's ironic, really is."

"Don't get mad," he whispers. "It's bad for your blood pressure."

"Fuck my blood pressure, you're good at raising it."

He raises an eyebrow at the language. She pays no attention.

"You do not get to be jealous, Tyrion. We were friends and that mattered but we haven't seen each other in three years. You don't get to be jealous that I've met other people."

He wonders again how much she's changed, where she draws the line in friendship these days.

"God, I wasn't even jealous of your wife!"

He can't be sure she's lying.

"Are you and she-"

He doesn't want to know, but he has to ask.

"It's none of your business, and I can't believe that after all this time that's what you want to ask me."

"Things changed. Between us. Didn't they?"

She swirls the drink with her finger and licks it clean. It's not a question she cares to answer but, unlike him, she does not shy away from such questions.

"Yes."

Uncomfortably she toys with her necklace and adjusts her dress.

"We were better friends before you introduced me to Tysha."

"It was a mistake."

They make eye contact at last, searching each other for the answer to an unspoken question.

She bites the bullet. "Did you regret it?"

For once he summons the will to give a straight answer. "Never."

A smile blossoms across her face and lights up his view. He takes it as her answer.

"So why are you here?"

"I'm a newly divorced man. I needed to track down someone who could cook me a meal."

She chuckles. He has genuinely missed the sound.

"Are you mad?" he asks.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "I must be."

"You know what I'm saying, right?"

"What you're saying is, can we unchange things?"

"Well, apart from 'unchange' not being a word, you're pretty close."

"You have to wonder about that."

"Do I?"

"'Unchange' not being a word. I mean, 'unchanged' is a word."

"That's correct."

"I know it's correct, dear, I just think it doesn't make much sense is all."

"Much like that sentence."

They notice simultaneously that Sansa's heel is tapping out the rhythm of the music on the flooring. She pushes the umbrella up and down while he snickers.

"Since when did you like Peggy Lee?"

"Since when did you know what I like?"

She's a tease and he gets the joke but he's still a little hurt, because time doesn't cure all ills and he still doesn't know if he knows what she likes at all.

"I do a mean Peggy Lee. I'm telling you. I'll give you a fever that'll keep you in bed for a month."

He squints at her in a way that could almost be described as a leer.

"You know some of the things I like," she admits, sliding the tapping foot closer to his. "Though not my drink."

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and bangs a fist on the table in sadness more than anger.

"You're really not happy about the drink."

"Not ecstatic, no."

There's not much point in going easy on him when he'll never be so generous to himself, and besides it'd be a fool who expected him to return the favor. Not to mention the fact that she places a value on her company these days and does not mean to give it away for free, least of all to one who thinks he's entitled.

"I think we may have just discovered why 'unchange' isn't a word."

Her foot isn't tapping any more, but his fingers have started.

A man with distinguished silver streaks in his hair approaches the table, sees the expressions on their faces and makes an abrupt change in direction.

The band plays on, or at least the Glenn Miller Orchestra does through the CD player.

He stands up, sits back down rapidly and realizes there's no way in hell he's driving himself back to the hotel tonight.

"Going somewhere?"

"To throw this pink thing down the nearest drain where it belongs and buy you another drink."

"Tyrion? The drink, really not that big an issue."

He stares for a second and then tips the glass upside down and a hot pink sunset spreads across the thick beige carpet. His temper swirls round his belly, itching for an excuse to erupt through his veins and escape through his mouth and his fists. He very deliberately replaces the glass on the table.

She doesn't bother looking to see if anyone's watching. They are bound to have been. She hopes against hope no one will think he is her date; as much as she loves him, she does not wish to be associated with such a anti-social man when there is no good reason that she should be.

He is a problem, this man, and one she would dearly like to solve.

The mess on the floor is really rather pretty, though she suspects her boss will feel differently.

Exotic scents strain upwards from the carpet. They are sickly and far less sweet to him than fumes from the whiskey, but they remind him of flowers and for a moment he fancies he has his nose in a vase of the bluebells his wife used to grow in their garden before she started showing someone else how to make his garden grow. That is when he remembers that he really shouldn't be thinking of Tysha as his wife any more.

They sit together in a silence that cannot be called companionable but might be considered peaceable. It's better this way because this is how it used to be. They never did waste much time trying to please each other, and if they intend to know each other again there is no point in beginning like they're trying to get laid.

She struggles to deny to herself that she's missed him, but it's Tyrion she has missed and not this enigma who compliments her hair and gets jealous of anyone she touches and has curbed the temptation to insult her all evening.

She feels that he has abandoned that strategy for now. Perhaps after a little of the standard version she will believe in being careful what you wish for. For now he makes her feel like she did when she was a few years younger. How many would sneer at such an opportunity?

Her eyes fall to his rough hands and his redundant wedding band. She'd ask him why he wears it, but she wants to be drunk before they start dredging up those issues.

His torn napkin art is finished: it resembles a conifer surrounded by a ring of stars, or possibly a bear.

"Logo for European environmental issues?"

He frowns, which is his standard expression for registering all emotions but in this case signifies confusion. She waves at the table.

"Sorry, unfunny. So what's your thing supposed to be?"

"I leave you alone for a few years and you start looking for the hidden meaning in mindless acts of boredom."

Neither of them is about to point out that she's hasn't been alone, that she left him with his wife and now he hasn't got a wife but it shouldn't matter to them.

"The psych professor within is offended," she laughs.

"I never had a psych professor."

"I know."

"I never took a psych course in my life."

"I know. Some might say it shows. I, of course, am not like that."

"Psych is a girly subject."

"And now the feminist within is offended."

But of course she has long since given up being finding him offensive, when it sounds so much nicer to call him a character.

"I'm just saying, boys only take it because it's where all the cute girls are."

"You might want to think about why it never occurred to you to follow the cute girls."

"It's us."

It takes a startled moment before she realizes he's back to talking about his paper ball creation.

"Tyrion, it's- pretty much a shapeless blob." He looked at her. "Okay, I'm going to find a more flattering way of saying that."

"It could be anything," he murmurs, taking a point from one of the stars she thought she saw and flicking it across the table at her.

She smiles and means it.

"Yeah, I like that."

"So."

"So."

He cocks his head to the side and enjoys the view from a different angle. He glances at his watch.

"What time does this thing finish?"

"Another hour or so. Why?"

"I need to call a cab before the rush. I brought my car but I can't drive. How are you getting home?"

She readjusts her dress, shifts in her seat, and delays answering the question because she knows what's coming.

"Same way."

"Shall we share a cab?"

"No."

She says it too quickly to convince that she hasn't thought about the eventuality arising.

"Why not?"

"You're a newly divorced man with issues and I'm a woman in my twenties who doesn't have a husband."

It doesn't matter that there's no logic in her answer; they both understand. So instead of trying to talk her round, he just complains, "You have issues too."

She lets him trace his hand over her fingers and wrist as the music plays in the background.

"Will I see you again?"

She's vague enough to mean tomorrow or forever, he takes it as both and anything in between.

"I'm flying out tomorrow. Which is why I came tonight."

He is aware of her gazing at him intently but he can't quite bring himself to return the favor.

"I found out I was in your city and I figured if I left without seeing you I'd come up with excuses to put if off forever, so..."

"So here we are."

"Yeah."

They stand together, without word, and head towards the door, making baby steps.

"So do you ever find yourself in London these days?"

There's half a smile on her face.

"I'm sure I could make a detour."

He turns so they're facing each other one last time for the evening.

"Then I guess you'll see me again."

She pulls a face.

"What did I do to deserve this?"

He reaches across and flips a lock of her hair.

"I have no idea, but it must have been something good."

She pulls her hair back in a handheld ponytail out of his reach and sticks out her tongue. He steps back in anticipation of a retaliatory attack on his beard. They hover thus for several minutes because neither is entirely sure they can rely on seeing each other again.

"You could always, you know, call me," she says shyly, which she resents because she hasn't been shy in years and she damn well shouldn't feel that way for someone she knows as well as Tyrion.

"What would we talk about?"

"Anything but your wife."

"Should be easy, seeing as how I don't have one."

"Yeah."

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, just like when he was standing waiting for her to notice him. He's no less awkward now - but at least they know they both still care.

"So," he says, "You should probably be doing some schmoozing before all those _incredibly_ interesting people go home."

She ignores the dig. "I should, yeah."

"I'll-" He gestures half-heartedly at the door.

She looks like she's going to say something but holds her tongue. Talking for this pair is too meaningful to be an effective means of communication.

"Good night," she settles for.

He touches his forehead in salute and turns before they can begin their time-worn game of reading in each other's body language what they are not aware of feeling.

It's typical that he thinks he can walk away without saying goodbye.

When she materializes beside him ten minutes later, he is slumped against the wall of her workplace, too heavy with drink and her to draw the energy to call a cab.

He resembles a tramp. It's a look that works on him.

"Don't be maudlin," she tells him anyway.

He snorts and doesn't ask why she's here.

"Here." She passes him a Montecristo cigar. His eyes glow like the proverbial kid in the candy store. "Sweet talked it out of my boss."

"Thank him for me."

He doesn't have a light; she's thought of that and it's the kind of subtle stroking of the ego that gratifies him - one of the few traits he shares with other men.

"She'd be incandescent if she knew it was for the man responsible for the cleaning bill she's going to get, so I don't think I'll be doing that."

She slips her heels off and rests one foot flat against the wall and hugs her knee.

"So. You're not gone yet."

He doesn't think that warrants a response.

"I can't cook," she reminds him. It's unnecessary. He turns and blows a smoke ring in her face.

"I'll boil you an egg sometime, if it'll help."

He wonders how long she'll keep talking if he keeps not answering, and if she'll reveal anything interesting.

"Though it'd probably be easier if I just took you out to dinner."

He savors the cigar. He doesn't often get to sample such a nice brand. It occurs to him that she must have talked very sweetly to her boss.

"Whose call was it?"

When he looks at her with a quizzical face, her mouth is pensive and her eyes are shy. He is unaccustomed to this look on her. Supposing it is time for him to speak, he reluctantly slides the cigar from between his lips.

"What do you mean?"

"Who left?"

"You did."

She dips her eyes in a flush of awkwardness he can't quite understand, but persists.

"You or Tysha?"

"Both of us. You left both of us."

This time she responds with an exasperated cluck of the tongue.

"You know what, forget I asked." But she can't take her own advice and spits, "I left a job, a city. And that's all I left."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it," he says mildly.

"I don't. Just had to ask."

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't."

She thinks it's the truth but that doesn't explain why she feels this need to know. She doesn't know which answer would please her best. Neither, she suspects.

He replaces the cigar between his teeth and takes a deep, leisurely draw to fill up his senses.

The rich smoky taste on the air reminds her of the time before.

"Tysha left."

She nods slowly, her mind a vacuum. Apparently it really doesn't matter.

"It was a formality. I was determined to make her do all the work of ending it."

Her mouth twists into a wry grin. His chivalry continues to impress. She's missed him.

"That cab's taking a hell of a long time."

"I didn't call one."

She smiles at the stars. He hasn't changed, praised be the Lord.

She snatches the Montecristo from his fingers. She hates the damn things, but his pleasure always tempts her. Coughing on it, she holds out her free hand.

Taking the hint along with the hand, he balances it delicately on his fingers while he brushes a rough thumb across the back.

Growing accustomed to the cigar and feeling decadent, she tilts her hand in his. He raises it to his lips and bestows a feather-kiss on the palm before proceeding to work his mouth round each knuckle once. When he kisses his way back down the row he can taste his own blend of whisky and tobacco on her skin.

She gently disentangles their fingers, lest he should begin to think of tasting the blend on her lips, and hands him back his cigar.

He makes a sound that's a cross between a groan and a growl and it awakens her inner smile to see that she can stir the blood in his veins. It never hurts to know these things.

He turns at the noise of an engine in pain and is surprised to see an aged taxi roll to a halt in front of them. The driver wound down the window: "Lannister?"

"I called it from inside," she confesses.

She hasn't changed either, except for the hair.

It is entirely unhealthy how deep inside each other's consciousnesses they have penetrated.

She opens the door for him and leans over it.

"I'll see you in London."

It's spoken as an aside but she chooses to take it as a promise.

She nods, smiles, blows a kiss and slams the door in his face.

It seems fitting.


End file.
